


The Drunkard (King AU)

by SimplySyra



Series: Blood on Gold Kings [32]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Achievement City, Achievement Hunters, Alternate Universe - Achievement Hunter Kings, The Mad King - Freeform, the maker - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:05:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5657167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplySyra/pseuds/SimplySyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patricide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drunkard (King AU)

There are lines in your bones where they’ve been broken too many times. You set and seal the cracks with drops of golden fire. They flicker now, more candlelight than starlight, more moonlight than sunlight. The brazen gilt of your glorious awakening now dulled by the heavy dust of the eons and the layers of grief that built up in your chest, fossilizing your bones inside the failing strength of your skin.

Your first crown–fiery, golden. A blazing star upon your brow, bashed from your head with a force strong enough to cave in your skull. You remember his face, burning and brilliant like blood in a wound, his smile like the white-washed flutter of bones in a churned up graveyard. You remember the intimate caress of his sword through your chest and his hand through your heart. You will remember your son this way until the day you end.

The thin silver circlet that replaced that crown is lighter, more suited to a head once crushed by a fist so bitter you could taste the cold tang of his hatred on your tongue as you died.

You were a god once. 

You still are.

But you’d like to forget.

Forget the hands that shaped him, somehow tenderly, despite the force required to build him from the raging violence of living plasma. You forged him gently at the center of a star, wrapped him in moonlight, and put a sword in his hand.

Now you haunt the old taverns and bars, smelling of hydrogen ash and mead. You lift your mug to the barkeep, flashing coins in hands that once flashed lightning and thunder. You’d trade your wings for another bottle if you could.

But wings are worth nothing in a world with the sky closing in.


End file.
